light through a glass
by F.Vikus
Summary: Chas breaks. John watches. slash JohnChas. Complete
1. drain out drain out

light through a glass 

AN: John/Chas. Not mine.

Chas breaks. John watches.

* * *

**1 **

It was an accident, Chas says, but John's lived long enough to know that there were no such things as accidents. Not in this world, or the next.

"Accident," Chas repeats, a little firmer this time, and he shrugs his shoulders. John tries to ignore the slight shaking of Chas' hands, the way Chas doesn't quite meet his eyes.

John points to the kitchen chair, makes Chas sit on it. Chas grins, wider, his teeth crystalline in the light. "I was just cleaning," and John ignores the blatant lie. Tries not to think about it, because this is Chas. Happy, goofy Chas. Chas, who has a future, who maybe just tried off himself in John's apartment.

"I was just cleaning, because you live in a dump."

John snorts, like he doesn't realize, like this conversation is not as serious as it really is.

"And I dropped the knives." Chas tilts his head, eyes clear like glass, and John is caught in them. He almost believes him, and then he sees the lie underneath the dark lashes and _when did he learn to lie like that?_

Out of the corner of his eyes, John sees the dropped knives, scattered across the floor. Flung across the floor, John thinks darkly, noting one knife stuck in the wood of a cupboard.

It was an accident, coming home. But John remembers that there are no accidents, and for once, he's relieved that maybe Someone up there did give a damn. He wasn't due back for another four hours. By then, Chas would have been –

John stops thinking there, and chants _happy Chas, happy alive Chas,_ over and over again in his head.

* * *

Chas was in the bathroom. John had stormed into his apartment, pissed as hell at forgetting whatever and Chas was in the bathroom.

There was a trail of blood from the kitchen to the bathroom. John hadn't seen it, wasn't even heading for the kitchen, but something was wrong _this was all wrong_ and he felt it.

Then his foot hit a knife, and when he looked down, he saw the blood. John's heart froze in _(fear)_ dread. He took swallowed and took a step backwards, _and where was Chas?_

"Chas?"

Then another step.

And his heart stopped when he saw the trail of blood.

And he ran to the bathroom. He pushed open the closed door, heart in his ears, stone in his throat.

Chas was kneeling in front of the bathtub, water running slowly.

"Chas?" John tried to keep his voice from shaking. "Chas, what did you do?"

Chas turned his head, and John tried to keep from shuddering at the paleness of his skin, at the hollowness in his eyes.

"I need to clean it," he said simply, holding his wrist under the running water. John watched the blood mingle cleanly with the water, watched it disappear down the drain.

* * *

That's all John remembers, watching the blood swirl in the tub. He doesn't remember how Chas is sitting in front of him right now, staring blankly right back at him.

He looks at Chas, wonders when he began to change. Wonders how he missed this and _was there a warning sign at all? _and he wants to shake Chas.

"Chas?"

Chas merely looks at him, looks past him, and John feels a chill slowly creep up his veins.

"I'll clean up the mess," Chas says simply. He moves towards the knives, but John stops him, hand gripping Chas's forearm a little too forcefully.

"Leave it. We need to talk." And how the words sound so foreign to John coming out of his own mouth.

"I made it," Chas retorts, but only half-heartedly. There was no challenge in his voice. He yanks his arm away. John hears flesh tearing, but only in his head, and he watches numbly as Chas makes his way to the kitchen.

* * *

**2 **

It's been six days. John finds himself going home earlier now, finding excuses, finds it harder to ignore the uneasy feeling that's been building at the back of his skull.

Chas isn't sleeping. John knows this. He hears him at night, when the streets are quiet or too alive. Chas gets up off the couch and paces o_ne, two, three, four, five_ over and over in the living room. There's always the sharp inhale of a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob, and it cuts through the darkness into John's bedroom. John is wide awake for this, and he's just as exhausted as Chas. It shows, and Midnite notices, makes polite jabs at him, "You look like terrible," meaning "You look like shit," and John knows.

He doesn't let Chas drive anymore, and Chas doesn't argue. In fact, he barely talks, and John misses his voice. And it's hard to swallow, and John tells himself that he's not worried again and again.

On Thursday, John finds Chas sitting on the window ledge, legs dangling outside. He's wearing nothing but a thin white T-shirt and a pair of shorts. It's snowing outside, and Chas is staring at the sky.

John's never been able to get that window open. The latch is jammed, and the frame is stubborn, and so at first, he marvels at the open window. Then Chas moves, and John realizes.

Chas is sitting on the ledge.

Chas is sitting on the ledge.

John stops in his tracks, and then he calls "Chas." He hears the fear in his voice.

Chas doesn't move, and John creeps closer, hands out in front of him. "Chas, what are you doing?"

"It's snowing."

"Come back in."

Chas shifts.

"Please." John is right behind Chas now, reaches out to pull him in –

"Who am I?" Chas asks, suddenly, and John sees the bandage on Chas' hand. Sees the blood.

"I don't – "

Chas swings his legs back in, faces John. "Who am I?" He looks straight into John's face. "Who am I?" He tilts his head back, leans back –

John reaches out and grabs Chas by the collar. He stumbles as Chas pitches forward from off his ledge into John. He's holding Chas close, his head on his chest, and in a moment of clarity John thinks _how perfect_. They're both breathing heavily, John out of fury.

"What were you doing? Are you insane? You could've fallen!" He's shaking; he's never been this frightened before.

Never.

He struggles to keep the fear off his face, out of his voice. His stomach twists into his throat. Chas closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, John sees emptiness. He is staring into an abyss.

"I wasn't going to do anything." There is no emotion is Chas' voice, no defiance, no teasing.

"I don't care!" John knows he sounds juvenile. "Don't you ever do that again!"

And they're standing so close now, John still holding onto the front of Chas' shirt, and John is looking at that pale skin, his dark eyes, and he could lean down and –

And Chas whispers, "Why?" and John realizes he's not even here.

* * *

**3**

When Chas goes missing at eleven, John is frantic. He rummages through all of Chas' stuff (which wasn't much), realizing halfway that he knew nothing about Chas. Didn't know where he lived, not after he left his mother, didn't know if he still went to school, didn't know if he had friends.

He hits the streets, searches until five, searching all of Chas' favorite haunts. At eight, John returns home and swallows his pride. He calls Midnite.

"I need a favor," he said, and all he can think is _where is he?_

"I'll find him," Midnite says, without missing a beat and hangs up.

John stays at the apartment, hopes that maybe Chas decided to be a stupid teenager for once. Maybe he's out drinking, or partying, or screwing some girl. John smokes two packs in an hour, ignores the burning in his lungs, and then he paces his living room.

Midnite brings Chas back at one in the morning, hand gripping Chas' shoulder like a clamp. Chas doesn't even look at him. He wanders into the living room and curls up in a corner of the couch. John watches him tiredly, hands shaking. His nerves are shot, and he's never felt so old.

"Where was he?"

Midnite sighs, crosses his arms. "At the downtown bridge."

"Oh." John inhales, pushing his palms into his eyes. He hurt all over.

"John."

John stops, and then he _knows_.

Midnite looks past John and at Chas on the couch. "He was at the top of the bridge."

"Oh my God." And John sees it right in front of his eyes, Chas leaning over the edge, arms spread. Chas smiling as he falls, Chas disappearing into the dark.

Midnite shrugs. "You need a drink," voice trailing off, and then he's gone.

John stands there, hand over mouth, and he feels sick, feels like someone yanked the carpet out from under him and he's falling. He walks over to the couch, wants a drink, wants this to stop, wants Chas to stop.

"What is wrong with you!?" John winces inwardly at the way the words came out: mean, accusing, but Chas doesn't flinch. He looks thoughtful, too calm.

He turns his eyes on John, and John sees nothing in them. "I don't know."

_The truth, _John thinks, _please,_ and wonders why he cares, when he started to care.

Chas smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and says, "Nothing." But he really means _Everything_ and John hears the word reverbing through his skull.

* * *


	2. shards of your heart

**shards of your heart**

**1**

He didn't succeed. He never would've guessed that John finally swallowed his pride and asked for help. From Midnite too, of all things. Nothing ever escapes Midnite.

Chas is tired.

He wants to beg John to let him go, but his voice isn't working, and his body isn't either. John looks at him with such betrayal in his eyes, and Chas wants to scream _I would die for you_ but decides against it.

John wouldn't die for him. John has no such loyalties.

Unlike him.

Chas is forever loyal to John.

He had a life once. Sure, it wasn't much of a life, but at least it was his. But now, his life belongs to exorcisms John performs. Belongs to the_ things_ John sends back to hell. Belongs to John.

Chas is forever chained to John.

**2**

And he's not good enough. Not these days anyways. John's fuse is shorter, and his silences longer. Chas has the unbearable need to fill the silence. He sees the silence, the swirling darkness like breath in cold air, and then he's so afraid.

_The silence ate his mother._

He wonders if John sees the silence. Then he realizes that John is the silence, is the ice that coats the apartment windows. Chas can never tell if John's pissed at him, and so he babbles.

And still John doesn't talk. Not to him anyways.

_The silence turned his mother._

Maybe it's his fault. He's good at this, turning the guilt inward. His mother, before she _changed,_ always said he was endothermic. Endothermic, the sucking of heat inwards. The sucking of life inwards. Now he wonders if that's what she really meant, him draining her until she became unrecognizable.

And then, with frightening clarity, he realizes that eventually, he'll bleed John dry.

**3**

Chas knows they end here. Up on the bridge, miles up from the ocean, and Chas feels like flying. There are no stars tonight, no birds, no cars. Like the whole world's been waiting for this, this _finale_, and Chas understands. The world is letting him leave.

"Chas." John is leaning over the railing, hands gripping the rails tightly. "Don't be stupid." His coat flaps wildly behind him, and Chas is reminded of a raven.

John's not letting him leave. John is reaching for him, arm outstretched. Chas stares at the pale hand, the long slender fingers. In another world, John would've been a concert pianist. An artist.

In another lifetime, John would've loved Chas.

"Go away," Chas says, listlessly.

"Chas," John grinds out. "You don't like heights. You don't even like the dark."

"Neither do you." Chas takes his hands off the railing and balances on the ledge. He's not facing John but he can see alarmed expression clear as day.

_Jump._

Chas thinks of Gabriel, of Balthazar, and how similar their voices sound, and wonders maybe if this madness was their doing.

"Chas."

Chas closes his eyes.

"Come back with me." It was John's way of pleading with him. Chas has never seen John so broken. This is not the John that spit fire and blood and Latin like he speaks English. This is not the John that curses him out and feeds him breakfast.

John's changed.

_And so did I,_ thinks Chas. He's broken John, and Chas feels inexplicable sorrow at this. _I didn't mean to,_ he cries in his head, and somehow John's hand is on his shoulder, a solid weight.

"Please, Chas."

John's hand finds his and Chas carefully turns himself around on the ledge. His hand is warm, despite the freezing wind, and Chas marvels at how they fit together. How their palms touched with familiarity even though John's never touched him like this before. With care, and Chas tries to ignore the regret in his heart.

"Sorry, John," Chas says. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Chas," John's eyes widen with realization and he reaches out for him, ignores the rush from lurching forward, reaches for him only to grab air.

_I love –_

Chas lets go.

John finally wakes up.

---

**angst, angst, and more angst. Please R/R. **


End file.
